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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198003">The Very Model of a Modern Minor Miracle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala23/pseuds/gala23'>gala23</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I Made My Shed the Top Rated Restaurant On TripAdvisor, M/M, Oobah Butler, bringing back a meme from 2017, or rather dining somewhere else</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:35:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,235</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala23/pseuds/gala23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley suggests that he and Aziraphale visit the top rated restaurant on TripAdvisor. It would take a miracle to get a reservation.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Very Model of a Modern Minor Miracle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You should definitely google "I Made My Shed the Top Rated Restaurant On TripAdvisor" before starting, or things might not make a lot of sense.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing you will need to know is that while Crowley did not invent the internet, he <i>has</i> had a lot of fun with it since it really took off. Selfies, of course, were a slam dunk, but there were also more subtle demonic additions; for instance, Crowley is particularly proud of working with Google to sort the search results for recipes by the length of the preceding personal essay about the a long-ago trip to Crete that really inspired the author’s grandmother to pass down this recipe on a single notecard, which once got lost, but was miraculously found pressed between two expired boxes of cereal in a bottom cupboard and can now be shared with the world. This, of course, led to a delightful epidemic of stressed holiday bakers, their hands covered in flour, scrolling through ten photos to find out what temperature to set the oven to. </p><p>Crowley also had a hand in both Yelp and TripAdvisor, because what better way to increase the frustration of already worn-out and vulnerable tourists than to suggest a lovely restaurant or boat trip, only for the establishment to turn out to have been closed for two years, under new ownership as a strip club, or simply infested with rats but wealthy enough to pay off anyone leaving a poor review?</p><p>Yelp and TripAdvisor turned out to be huge successes. But, as Aziraphale said, evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, you’ve never heard of it? It’s number one!” Crowley thrusts his cellphone towards Aziraphale, who gives it the bewildered look of a grandfather on his first encounter with Facebook. He squints.</p><p>“It does have five stars,” he admits dubiously. “But usually I find out about places by, you know, speaking with people. They all know each other, of course, and you meet the most wonderful—”</p><p>“But this one is <i>exclusive</i>,” Crowley insists. “Look, they have a dish called Lust.” Aziraphale’s look of apprehension only grows, so Crowley changes course. “And one called Love! We could try to get a booking, if you like.”</p><p>Aziraphale is usually the one who secures them a table, so he understands what Crowley is asking. Just a little miracle, a waiter realizing they’ve marked a table as taken when in fact the holder of the reservation just won tickets to that thing they love and skipped dinner.</p><p>“I would like to see what they believe Love tastes like, I suppose.” Aziraphale performs the miracle.</p><p>And it doesn’t work.</p><p>Aziraphale has been reprimanded in the past for performing too many miracles, and for a long while was on probation, with the highest allowable level of miracle being 1.27 molehills. (Miracles can, with some dimensional analysis, be converted into the same units as belief systems. Aziraphale is technically capable of several alps, possibly a Himalaya if he really means it or if Crowley is involved.) He can’t remember the number of times he has been chided for making mountains out of molehills, because Heaven does love their trite sayings. So, he grew accustomed to calibrating his miracles on the level of 1 to 1.5 molehills, which he could usually get away with if Gabriel was looking the other way, which he usually was.</p><p>Somehow, even with the exertion of a very large molehill, perhaps a molehill constructed by the Townsend’s mole, no table becomes available for that night, or in fact any night in the foreseeable future. Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch together. Crowley’s, in response, begin to rise.</p><p>“Are you all right?” Crowley asks, after a few moments.</p><p>"It seems they are, ah... booked up. Indefinitely. Most irregular. Maybe you can give it a shot, my dear."</p><p>Crowley can't help smirking a tiny bit. "Like I said, this place is exclusive." He waves his hand in a careless flourish. </p><p>He flourishes again. </p><p>He adds a snap for effect, followed by a triumphant "A-ha!" </p><p>"Did it work?" </p><p>"I think so," says Crowley, checking his phone. It dings. "An email! We have a reservation for... four days from now? Well, better than nothing. I hope you don't have other plans, angel?"</p><p>"I believe I can shuffle my schedule," Aziraphale replies primly. "Just tell me when and where."</p><p> </p><p>Four days later, the Bentley roars down a small street in Dulwich that really isn’t used to being roared down. </p><p>"Looks a bit residential, doesn't it?" Aziraphale asks, peering out at the houses flying past. "I do hope it's as good as your little advisor thingy says it is."</p><p>"Of course it is, it's unique." Crowley fights down a twist of apprehension. This place does look pretty out of the way, and Aziraphale's standards are high. What if he doesn't like it? </p><p>The Bentley skids to a halt on a quiet street corner. One or two rubbish bins conveniently hop out of the way. </p><p>"Is this...it?" Aziraphale looks around. </p><p>"I'm supposed to call someone, it's very cloak and dagger. Hop along, angel," Crowley says, sliding out of the car and whipping out his mobile with bravado he doesn't feel. <i>Aren't there other customers? Or maybe, perhaps, a front door? Like an actual nice restaurant would have?</i></p><p>The line connects. "The Shed at Dulwich," comes a chipper voice on the other end. </p><p>"Ah, this is Crowley, party of two, we've a reservation and we are on the indicated street corner. Very normal," he adds in a whisper to Aziraphale, and then realizes this is probably not going to make things seem more normal. </p><p>Things get even less normal when the restaurant owner himself arrives, dressed in black and wearing a beanie hat. Crowley has a sinking feeling. As someone who tricks and needles humans professionally, he recognizes a kindred spirit immediately. His mind is half made up to drag Aziraphale off to a more reputable establishment immediately when he realizes the angel and this... slippery fellow are already deep in small talk, and Aziraphale's eyes are gleaming with excitement. </p><p>The owner insists, with somewhat less politeness than Crowley thinks is warranted, that they wear blindfolds, and in fact tries to put one on Aziraphale himself. Crowley balks at this and snatches the...sash? (It’s pink and reads BRIDE in glittering white letters) out of the man's hands. </p><p>"There's no need," he says, very persuasively. "He's not going to post your location on the internet if that's what you're worried about; he hasn't even got an Instagram."</p><p>The unspoken <i>then why is he here</i> on the greeter's face is palpable, but he leads them inside without the blindfolds anyway. </p><p>The way in is a narrow path between two houses, barely wide enough for one person to pass through, and Crowley's sinking feeling only grows. There is no way that this will be up to the angel's stringent culinary standards. </p><p>When they enter the restaurant, or yard, as it probably should be called, two things happen. First, Aziraphale gasps in delight and says, "Look, they've seating on the roof!" Second, a small pink house-shaped structure erupts in panicked clucking, and a few stray feathers flutter from its tiny window. They are followed by an entire chicken, which is quickly pursued by an older man who appears to possibly be a customer.  </p><p>The owner's smile freezes into a panicked mask as he cries, "I forgot to mention, it's pick your chick!" Crowley winces, and whispers to Aziraphale, "Sorry, sorry, that was me I think. They don't like the...." He mimes slithering with his hand. </p><p>Aziraphale sails on, unperturbed. "Waiter, may we be seated further from the chickens? My friend has an allergy." </p><p>"Chicken allergy, of course, we get that all the time, this table here is far enough." The owner seats them at a tiny, rickety table. Crowley senses that Aziraphale may have been angling for the seat on the roof, for added novelty, but there doesn't seem to be much he can do about it now short of demonically miracling the two men currently seated on top of the shed down off of it. He seriously considers it. </p><p>The owner, who is apparently also going to be their waiter, looks over Aziraphale: seated primly at the front of his chair, elbows on the table, looking expectantly upward. "I'm getting a mood of curiosity from this side of the table," he begins, and some of Crowley's tension eases when Aziraphale beams. </p><p>"Very curious indeed. My friend found this place on the Internet and I can't wait to see how it is." Crowley can't help the fond way his lips quirk when Aziraphale says "the Internet." One can just hear the capital letter. </p><p>"And for you, sir, I'm getting Love." This snaps Crowley right out of his contemplation of Aziraphale, and his head whips towards the restaurant owner. </p><p>"What?" He doesn't do any head-transfiguring, but the tone is enough to knock the waiter back a step. Aziraphale reaches across the table and pats his arm.</p><p>"Bring him a nice plate of Wickedness, or whatever you have along those lines," he says soothingly, and the man nods and hurries off. </p><p>Crowley simmers down as he leaves. "Love, really," he scoffs. "Do I need to update my wardrobe or something? I can't have humans going round mistaking me for some ethereal being. No offense," he adds. </p><p>"None taken," Aziraphale replies readily. "Do you think that couple over there has the Love dish? It doesn't look very good, if I'm honest."</p><p>They spend the next minutes speculating over the titles of the dishes that other patrons are eating, sipping wine out of mugs, and, in Crowley’s case, slowly progressing from worried to panicked. The wine, which was advertised as a rare vintage but brought out in mugs without displaying the bottle, is awful. Crowley knows it, and he knows that Aziraphale knows it, and he can’t help scrutinizing Aziraphale’s slightly pursed lips, slightly scrunched eyebrows, slightly tilted head and thinking, <i>he doesn’t like it, I’ve brought him here with all this fanfare and he doesn’t like it, what do I do-- </i></p><p>“Wine in a mug, is this a new trend on the Internet?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley leans back to ensure that his shades cover the panic in his eyes (<i>he doesn’t like it--</i>), “I think it’s rather charming, especially in the rustic setting. Is this something that your hipsters are into?”</p><p>“M-<i>my</i> hipsters?” Crowley sputters, thrown. “Since when are they <i>mine</i>?”</p><p>"Well, you drive a vintage car and use a vintage voicemail machine, is all I'm saying," says Aziraphale. "These hipster individuals go in for that sort of thing."</p><p>"I am not a hipster, Aziraphale, I bought the Bentley new and they just don't make quality these days.” Crowley can’t contain his anxiety any longer and bursts out, “This wine is <i>awful</i>, would you like me to ask for something different?" </p><p>“What I would like to do,” Aziraphale responds with a slightly mischievous tilt of his head, “is to make a bet with you. Will the food,” and here he leans conspiratorially over the table and drops his voice, “be <i>worse</i> than the wine, or <i>much worse</i>?” </p><p>“We can go somewhere else,” Crowley begins immediately. “Waiter--”</p><p>Aziraphale stops him. “Shush! What are we betting? Pick of the wine cellar? Next overseas assignment? --well, I suppose we don’t really get assignments anymore--”</p><p>Sometimes Crowley forgets, since Aziraphale is an angel, that he is also genuinely capable of having a good time. And then, Crowley remembers that this is why he spends so much time with him. </p><p>“All right,” says Crowley. “Well, if you want my honest prediction, I’m going to go with <i>much worse</i>, for pick of <i>your</i> wine cellar, tonight, after I <i>delete</i> TripAdvisor <i>from the internet</i>.”</p><p>“We have a bet then,” says Aziraphale, and offers an awkward mug toast. </p><p>It is the subject of an hour-long debate whether the food is merely <i>worse</i> or <i>much worse</i> than the wine. Crowley chose <i>much worse</i> because he expected Aziraphale to be a harsh critic, but the angel merely lays out the judgment of “bit too greasy, bit too salty, but not bad.” Crowley, of course, insists that this stinks of self-interest and that such a low caliber of macaroni and cheese should never be served with wine of any quality. </p><p>In the end, they have so much of the wine of questionable quality that the bet is forgotten. </p><p>The ritual of leaving is surprisingly simple, as they are not charged for anything and are simply asked if they could leave a short review for a man holding a phone camera, the lens of which cracks in half at the first glint from Crowley’s shades. As they make their way out the garden path, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.</p><p>"Sorry the food wasn't really up to your standards, angel. You pick next time?"</p><p>"All right, though I had an excellent time in any case. We should go out to new places more often, don't you think?"</p><p>"Anytime,” Crowley says easily. “Especially since I don’t think anywhere that your foodies tell you about is going to be as bad as this place was." </p><p>Aziraphale laughs. “I can’t say I would really mind too much if it were, as long as you were there to enjoy it with me.”</p><p>And that’s it. That’s the miracle. The sound of tipsy laughter, angel and demon, echoes in the now-empty street as they make their way to the Bentley and roar off.</p>
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